unfinished. maybe.

i don;t know, this might be finished, but it might not be. my poems seem to write them selves. and while this doesn't necessarily read like it's finished, there has been no more for a week.

my heart is beating.
beating me up,
beating me down.
the pain of it inside my ribs
i need it to beat
i can't be rid of it
but it's doing more
than keeping me alive.
it's making me live
through pain
with pain.
heartache has a whole new meaning
with you